STORY OF A TRIP

I was wondering “I, for example, why did I want to become a writer?
Indeed, for what reason the writer himself? "
I looked for the deep memory that was to be connected to this choice, one of those that embodies the moment of the "crossroads". I remembered my high school literature teacher who said he had to leave a mark or, perhaps, I made up this memory; probably, I was just someone who, like all the deluded kids of my TV generation, had found a job with which to become famous.
At the time, for TV, they were the footballer, the showgirl, the singer, the actor, the actress, the presenter, which was a bit of a sociological thing, indeed, precisely, it was often a real "sociological consequence", such as for those of the generation before ours, that of our parents who, after Apollo 11, all wanted to be an astronaut and the girls, on the other hand, all wanted to become dancers, probably because they saw the first true female freedom on one black and white screen.
Plastic dreams that smell like food until you start biting into them.
Generations and generations of astronauts and dancers, of footballers, of actresses and actors, of volleyball players thanks to Mila and Shiro, of dreams that have often been broken and that have not been realized.
Now there is another screen, full of colors, to always carry with you: now there is the internet, the phenomena of the web, the InstaStars, the TwitterStars, the fashion bloggers, the influencers and us who often do not we don't even have an influence on our life.
I wondered what this dream pursued over time of wanting to be a writer was, I wondered what it had brought in my pocket to follow it until then.
That day I had practically reached the breaking point of my life where it is as if I woke up to look underneath my dream in the drawer and saw that it said IKEA. 
The stimuli to write my first real book, in fact, had been lost, faded over time and, frankly speaking, after this dismissal at the hotel I was no longer even convinced if I had really been cut out to be a writer.
I had written the book “17 years, in the summer” which had sold a good number of copies, it sells some now and then even now. I had published it at 19 only because a publisher had smelled the scent of easy money for the "kids" target, but I am still ashamed of most of the text, since then I have only published articles in music magazines and my very first book , the one heard, the one on which you spit blood and sweat I had not yet written.
That book published as a teenager, on the other hand, was about revenge, drugs, alcohol, identity research at the end of school, but it was only a summer love story with the usual late-adolescent problems; reading it now would perhaps even be a bit ridiculous, perhaps even 12-year-olds wouldn't read it now. Many of those teenage problems, socially speaking, are over now, or at least they want to believe they are, because perhaps it is most of adolescence now that seems over. Now, adolescence seems more like a very early adulthood, there is a too strong gap between childhood and adulthood, or at least much faster, some things, some actions, even some mistakes must be made in the "wrong age" "Right; this was the basis of the book with which I raised some money to round up: "If you smoke a joint at 10 instead of 15, if you already fuck at 12 instead of a few years later, if you don't enjoy some things before you know how to enjoy others, then you skip the steps too much, my friend. "
There was such bullshit about this book published at just nineteen.
It is true that I still think so briefly, but with the maturity and non-pride of thirty, at this moment, I know that I am nobody to tell you how you should live your adolescence or your life, therefore of that book, the I repeat, I am ashamed, even if they are right things they do not reflect respect for others and this is worth much more. However, if a story is written in a certain way, even at seventeen and published at nineteen, it can be enjoyable for those who are going through those problems and emotions and also for those who want to remember them.
However, without the purity of time in recounting the events of the protagonists, that book would certainly not have sold more than copies equal to the number of my aunts who, even if buying it, would still have complained about the fact that I had not given it to them at Christmas.
Maybe it's that I was no longer hungry to write, maybe I worked too many years in that hotel among the rich, maybe I bought too many useless things, maybe I should find a good girl by my side and stop being infatuated with those a little more crazy, but I don't even want one that, as they say, “Where do you leave it”.
Leaving the hotel behind me, I said to myself: “Maybe I should send everything to that country and take a trip. Yes, a trip.

STORY OF A SUNSET

- You're beautiful.
SUNSET - Eh, modesty aside ...
- But you put on some restlessness.
- Because?
- Hide something. I bet you are a metaphor.
- You found me out.
- Why do you behave like this?
- I'm a sunset. Being a metaphor is my job. People look at me, think about the end of something and cry.
- And this thing amuses you?
- Enough. We sunsets are sadists who feed on your tears. A sunset that doesn't make you cry is doing everything wrong.
- What kind of metaphor are you this time?
- I'll tell you right away. What are you looking at?
- You.
- Where I am?
- On the desktop.
- How long have you not watched a real sunset?
- Months. Maybe years.
- I'm a metaphor for that.
- Real sunsets?
- A part of you.
- I'm crying. You are a bastard.
- It's my job. Do not get mad. I am a sunset. I make people cry.

STORY OF A CIGARETTE

- sorry, would you have a cigarette? -
He saw her every morning. He knew she was one of those good girls, who never smoked. He wasn't the type. But he asked him; not so much for the cigarette as for talking to her. Just to see her lips in a dance just for him, to tell him something, anything. For him.
- no sorry. Still better for you, right? Smoking is bad -
- bad? Bad for what? -
- ah I don't know. Brain, lungs ... heart -
- what if one smokes to forget the harm they have done to his heart? -
- then in that case he needs help. He's killing himself. But I'm not a doctor, I can't know -
- Help? Guy? -
- like love. -
- and what is love like? -
- it's like when you smoke a cigarette and take his soul, but then it gets inside and kills you. But sometimes it's not like that -
- and how is it, the other times? -
- it's like when you kiss a strong person so that he can get inside you, and that person could kill you instead he chooses to save you. -
- then? -
- and then he hugs you and puts your heart close to his -
- and you? -
- I what? -
- you don't smoke. Do you have a person who can save you? -
The girl laughed.
- they were just metaphors. I don't believe in love. It was a nice way to tell you that smoking is bad for you, just like love does -
- you must have huge scars in there. -
The girl looked down.
He took her hands, looked up and saw those dead and empty and dark eyes.
- we will have to learn to hurt each other, what do you say? -
- what are you talking about? -
- I save you and you save me. Make love. We hurt each other together. Maybe every day or even every hour. But we keep ourselves alive, because we hold hands. So, are you there? -
- what if we end up killing ourselves? -
- what if we end up loving each other? -

STORY OF A NYMPH

Clizia was a young nymph, lost in love with the Sun, so she followed him all day while he drove his chariot of fire throughout the sky. The sun, at first was flattered and a little touched by that devotion … he thought he was in love with her in turn and decided to seduce her, which was not difficult for him! But soon the Sun got tired of Clizia’s love and gave her, as they say … the welcome by turning his attention elsewhere. The poor nymph wept continuously for nine whole days.

STORY OF A DAD AND HIS SON

Son: "Dad, can I ask you a question?"
Dad: "Sure, what's it about?"
Son: "Dad, how much money do you make in an hour?"
Dad: “None of your business. Why are you asking me such a question? "
Son: “I just wanted to know. Please tell me, how much money do you make in an hour? "
Dad: "If you really want to know, I earn 30 € in an hour"
Son: “Oh! (with head down)
Son: "Dad, would you lend me 15 €?"
The father was furious.
Dad: “The only reason you asked me was to borrow some money to buy a stupid toy or some other nonsense, now you go straight to your room and go to bed.
Think about why you are becoming so selfish. I work hard every day and then get this childlike attitude of yours.

The little boy went quietly to his room and closed the door.
The man sat down and became even more angry thinking about the boy's question. How did he dare to ask me such a question just to get some money?
After an hour or so, the man calmed down and began to think:
Maybe there was something he really needed to buy with € 15, he doesn't ask for money very often.
The man went into the little boy's room and opened the door.

Dad: "Are you sleeping, son?"
Son: “No dad, I'm awake”.
Dad: “I was thinking, maybe I was too hard on you before. It was a hard day for me today and I unloaded on you. These are the € 15 you asked for ”.

The little boy sat down immediately and began to smile.
Son: "Oh, thank you dad!"
Then, from under his pillow, he pulled out some crumpled bills. The man saw that the child already had money, and began to get angry again. The little boy slowly started counting his money, and then looked at his father.

Dad: "Why do you want more money if you already have some"?
Son: “Because I didn't have enough, but now yes”.
“Dad, I have 30 € now. Can I buy an hour of your time? Please come back early tomorrow. I'd like to have dinner with you. "

STORY OF A TIRED OWL

Once upon a time there was an owl that lived in a forest, along with many other specimens of its species.It rested preferably on the branch of a plane tree and, having a calm and peaceful character, remained there almost all the time. From that position, he watched the life unfolding around hmim. There were insects and animals that flew, ran around and chased each other incessantly. Witnessing the life of others did not amuse him on the contrary, he often felt tired and, not infrequently, a loud yawn caught him. His aunt, perched on a higher branch, urged him to move from his torpor and his sister, who was standing on a branch of the same tree, invited him to fly with her and her children. But Marino, this is his name, did not like the restless life of his relatives and begged them, with guttural sounds, to leave him alone. At night he hunted mice and green lizards and this was the only activity he carried out with pleasure. Often, in the middle of the night, when everyone else was asleep, he would exclaim: “I’m fed up, I’m fed up, I’m fed up!” He had had a friend, Doriano, who had soon made a family and therefore had abandoned him. He remembered that he had invited him to follow him into the holm oak grove where he lived a few kilometers away and one day he decided to accept his invitation. Opening its wide dove-colored wings, it flew into the unknown. As soon as he arrived, he heard himself called: “Marino, Marino, here you are at last! I was waiting for you”. The owl braked its flight and glided over an holm oak next to its newfound friend: “I left my hometown to live an adventure”. “Bravo, here you can have fun as much as you want”. Life in the holm oak was exciting. Doriano was part of a large group. There were birds of prey everywhere, especially owls and the food was plentiful. A true paradise. In the grove of plane trees he had been a loner. Now he enjoyed company and had become friendly and talkative. One night when he was making a larger flight than usual, he met an owl, a friend of Doriano’s. “What are you doing around here?” she asked him in a friendly hoarse voice. “I come from the woods not far from here. Would you like to visit it? ” Marino thought he had been too bold but the little owl blinked and emitted a pleasant throaty sound. Together, they took off and arrived at Marino’s house. They settled on his favorite plane tree. Owlette flapped her wide wings then remarked: “The world seen with you is beautiful.” “Marino, Marino where have you been?” His aunt and sister came down from the highest branches and alighted next to him. The aunt protested: “Why did you leave us? The children missed their uncle ”. “I left because I was in the mood for adventures. Here I was bored ”. The two women examined Owlette: “You have a nice partner… And now, what are you going to do? Will you leave us again? ” Marino was silent, undecided. Then the owl, offended, went away without saying anything. The fed up owl was very sorry. He found himself alone and bored again: ‘I’m sick, I’m sick, I’m sick!’ He would have liked to join Owlette, play with her and Doriano’s party, but something held him back. More and more often he exclaimed: “I’m fed up! I am fed up! I am fed up!” He would have liked to join Owlette, play with her and Doriano’s party, but something held him back. More and more often he exclaimed: “I’m fed up! I am fed up! I am fed up!” “Why don’t you go see her? Why don’t you go back to the holm oak grove? ” relatives who were worried about his mood encouraged him. “I do not want to”. One day Doriano arrived: “Marino, what’s wrong with you? Why didn’t you come to us anymore? ” “I was busy and then Gufetta abandoned me”. “You must know that Gufetta has returned to the holm oak because her mother was injured and needs treatment. She kept silent because she didn’t want to force you to stay with her, however, she always thinks of you ”. Marino was not in himself with joy. He greeted his relatives inviting them into the holm oak grove and exclaimed: “I’m not tired anymore! I’m not fed up anymore! I’m not tired anymore! ” The little owl was happy to find her mate again. Together, they decided they would never break up again. When they had owls, Marino invented stories to make them fall asleep and all the animals of the holm oak flocked to listen to them.

 

STORY OF A GOODBYE

“You loved her, didn’t you?” He sighed. “How can I answer you? She was crazy, ”he smiled, lost in some memory. She ran a hand through her hair: “God, she was all crazy. Every day I woke up next to a different woman, once enterprising, the other awkward. Once exuberant, the other shy. It was a thousand women, her. But the scent was always the same, unmistakable. That was my only certainty. It was the scent of the journeys he still had to make, he told me. I asked her what she meant but she never explained it to me. He smiled at me and knew he was fooling me with that smile. Because I swear to you that when he smiled I didn’t understand anything anymore, man. I didn’t understand anything anymore. I could no longer speak or think. Nothing, zero. Suddenly there was just her. She was crazy “she laughed” all crazy. Sometimes he got lost looking at a globe or a painting, it took hours for him to come to his senses. And that mania of hers for always wearing pants … I’ve never seen her with a skirt, you know? Sometimes she cried at night. They say that in that case the women just want a hug. Not her. She got nervous being near me in those moments. She got dressed and stayed in the garden all night, and woe betide her. She was ordering me to leave her alone. I heard her cry, even today I am convinced that she was talking to someone, in those terrible nights. There was something about her, my friend. I don’t know what, but she wasn’t a normal girl. There was something about her, or there were other girls about her, I still can’t tell you today. But I remember she was at my wedding. We were on the church square, she was hidden. She had her red suit, a suitcase in her hand, an elegant hat. What are you doing here? I asked her. And you, guess what she did? He smiled at me. I wanted to congratulate you, he told me. But I never invited you to my wedding, how did you know? I know everything, he replied. Yes, I know. Are you leaving? It was. Where do you go? Street. Street where? I don’t know, I’m going to dream about something. Can’t you dream here? I’m looking for dreams somewhere else. She was crazy, my friend. She was all crazy and had a smile to take your breath away. And what do I know if I loved her? How many women have I loved in her? I bet he still has that scent and that smile, and I bet he only wears pants even now that it’s been years. I also bet she is looking for dreams somewhere in the world and that I might find her in front of my house someday. It was terrifying, man. And I loved her so much.

STORY OF A FROG

The wide-mouthed frog goes hither and thither, hopping around the pond.
- Graaaa graaa, Hello, I'm the wide-mouthed frog, who are you? - asks the buffalo who is in the shade of a tree.
- I'm the long-horned buuufalo, go somewhere else, stop bothering me.
- Ah! hello buuufalo with long horns, I eat flies and what do you eat?
- I eat grass, and now you've really bothered me!
The buffalo blows air from its big nostrils and goes away annoyed.

The frog then continues to jump here and there and meets a black crow.
- Graaaa graaa,Hello, I'm the wide-mouthed frog, who are you?
- I'm the black runner and mind my own business.
- Ah! hello black run, I eat flies and what do you eat?
- I eat worms, and now you've really got me fed up!
The crow takes and flies away.

The frog continues to jump to the other side, on the water it finds a beautiful water lily, those plants that grow in ponds, and jumps on it.
A pike fish approaches it from under the water.
The pike fish takes its head out of the water and the frog immediately asks it:
- Graaaa graaa, ciaaao I'm the wide-mouthed frog, who are you?
- I'm the pikeeee fish, dearest.
- Ah! hello pikeeee fish, I eat flies and what do you eat?
- I eat wide-mouthed frogs! - the pike answers him.

The frog, hearing these words, makes a tight little mouth, as when kissing each other and says:

- Hello, I'm drowing, said the frog with the narrow mouth, sorry but I'm in a hurry.
The frog running away in hops runs far away ... boing boing ...

I CRIED

Today I cried again. Alone. In the shower.
I got good at not getting noticed in those moments. Or at least I try.
I don't always succeed.
The truth is that, by now, I have too much load to be able to "hide". Too many words that were not spoken, too many emotions that we tried to hold back. They are all there: stuck in the throat for several months. I'm on vacation and I should smile at everyone. But as usual he ruins everything.
Emotions press hard, like a ping-pong ball into the stomach.
The Miss who can make it at any cost, this time has succumbed to a crash.
Always at the right time when others need a hand and always at the wrong time when it's your turn. Because Miss doesn't know how to ask for help. They taught her (no, not her parents, but Existence itself) to stand on her legs and arms, because the mental stakes one clings to always disappoint.
And he does not know how to ask for help, nor take it, not even when that help comes spontaneously.
Perhaps because not all of them are inclined to Listening and even less lead to Listening to You.
Few are those who take words out of your mouth and pain out of your heart.
There are even fewer who understand you or those who care to understand.
No victimhood: everyone has their own difficulties in life and pain often tends to close rather than open.
Fears, then, govern the unmanageability of certain situations and you don't know what to do, how to help.
Silence. Thus we take refuge in Silence, when Speaking and being Listened to is the only real solution.
This is why, in the end, most people go to psychologists: because "no man is an island" and everyone wants to talk.
Listening is no longer practiced, not even towards oneself.
We hurt ourselves so much with words that don't come out, with emotions that don't vibrate, with gestures that don't happen.
Then you anesthetize yourself and think that finally that is the solution in which you no longer feel anything, to discover with horror that the pain remains and the joy fades too quickly.
It does not come out.
Today I cried in the shower. Alone.
I cried to cradle a little girl whose father died just over two months ago; I cried because that creature knows that her father was not a good father, but that he was hers and no one can take this memory out of her head.
I cried listening to the Woman with the chaos of feelings in the Soul, the indestructible Goddess who never wants to collapse ... pity that she is in a physical body that, sooner or later, had to yield to so many difficulties.
I cried for the youngest daughter, the one who wants to feel fragile because feeling fragile is a sign of humility towards oneself and towards one's own Existence.
I held the child, the lady, the youngest daughter .. I cried with them.
I burned my chest with sobs and ran out of tears. For today.
They will come back. Until I learn to speak.
He always destroys everything. Him and his anger. And now he sleeps and I am the woman who dreams when he sleeps.

EVERYDAY HELL

I go out for a walk, I need it to unload. I take with me only the essentials like my cell phone, put the aliens to kidnap me or I run into a group of zombies. Do you want not to be the first to sound the alarm? I can already see the scene: – “Ready single emergency number, what do you need?” – “Hello, look here in front of me I see zombies. Give the alarm to all citizens, but what do I say to the whole nation! Miiii what a fear! ” – * Click * Nothing, we will die devoured by zombies. Anyway I said cell phone, for work you never know, house keys. As I pass by the supermarket I stop to get some fresh bread for us. After my timed path with calculation of the distance traveled, calories burned, oxygen breathed, drops of sweat emitted and height difference on the path, no I have not met any zombies, fortunately, I decided to go into the supermarket. I walk decidedly along the aisles knowing where to go, without getting distracted and without … oh, stop … I thought I saw a new chocolate cream. locked in a magnetic money clip. Convenient, I also use it instead of the bulkier wallet. I pick them up and look around, there is a woman to whom I ask: “Excuse me, is this money yours?”; she replies no but you can clearly see in her eyes the admiration for my honest gesture.
Already I seem to read her in the thought “I admire you, you are beautiful, take me here now”. But I have to be completely honest. I quickly take a few steps and find another woman to whom I ask the same question, receiving the same answer; even here his eyes don’t lie “Give me your number I’ll stalk you, come on I’ll go out in chat”, I’m sure he wanted to tell me that. But honesty first of all. So I reach the cashiers and at the only open cashier I approach the cashier, handing them the money, I explain that I found it in the aisle before the read one. If anyone was looking for them, here they are. Her admiration was obvious, she was making me understand that she wanted to be the mother of my children, absolutely. But I already have children and, damn it, I have to get them fresh bread! So I go back and take the bread. I arrive at the cashier, the cashier is still the same as before and I already know that I will have to reject her desire for motherhood. – “I’m one euro and forty” – she whispers to me in ecstasy. – “Immediately” – I replied gallantly, putting my hands in my pockets.
Fuck! I can’t find the money, I quickly pass the other pockets. I begin to sweat with embarrassment. – “Excuse me” – is the only sentence I can say. Then, after rummaging in my underwear, I mumble: – “Yet I took the money clip before leaving the house, I’m sure of it.” – “Interesting, do you use those handy magnetic money clips too?”. – “Oh yes” – I reply, understanding that admiration for me leads her to play down the situation. – “They are comfortable” – he continues – “Rather than keep the free banknotes in your pocket that if you lose them you won’t agree, with a magnetic money clip instead you hear the thud, the lightness that all of a sudden you have in your pocket”. – “Exactly” – I answer her, this cashier loves me I feel it – “She understood everything”. – “Yeah, I also think I understand that your money clip is this” – showing me my money clip with bills. – “Oh, thank goodness” – comes out to me along with a huge sigh of relief. – “You gave it to me earlier, don’t you remember?”. A moment, a split second and I realize that the expression in her eyes was not a search for motherhood with me, but a compassion mixed with the desire to laugh in my face.
I turn to see if anyone was witnessing this pitiful scene. The answer is yes, but what am I going to tell you to do? There was my admirer, the one who wanted to be possessed between the aisles and the stalker, the one who wanted to chat with me. They had evidently seen me lose my money, and re-evaluating their former expression was more of terror. I think they thought I wanted to use that excuse to strike up a conversation. In returning home with a heavy step, I meditate on the possibility of opening a preparation agency, with the role of personal trainer, in shit figures. Or if my shit figures can make a resume, for sure if that were the case with this one I would have a guaranteed managerial job.

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